Feeling The Heat A Little Too Much
by Gala000085
Summary: Taking a walk in the desert through no will of his own is not as much fun as he might have hoped. Hyperthermia!Shawn!Whump NO SLASH
1. Chapter 1

A/N: A response to dragonnan's character fantasy of Hyperthermia over on psychfic.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Was there a particular reason for Gus to have turned off the air conditioning in the Psych office? He was fairly certain that _he _had not done it this time. He had learned from the previous time that the joke came back to bite him in the ass when it affected him as much as Gus.

That aside, he still found it incredibly hot. The next thing he noticed was that he was actually lying down and his eyes were closed. Why was he sleeping? The last he remembered he had been entering the office, _very_ early as well as he had been too restless about the case they were working to get any actual sleep anyway. Had he fallen asleep in the office? He didn't think he had, and if that was the case he must have hit the floor rather than the couch because it was not exactly soft where he was lying. On the other hand, the floor in the office was not supposed to be a little lumpy. Maybe he had knocked something over and fallen asleep on top of it.

Shawn blearily tried to open his eyes but quickly shut them again with a groan. Definitely not the Psych office unless they had suddenly lost the right to have a ceiling. He lazily rolled onto his side and attempted to push himself onto a sitting position which was more or less successful. It took a moment for the sudden spinning in his head to stop, but when it did he again braved to open his eyes.

This was so not good.

Sand.

Everywhere he looked there was just sand. It was like he had just become a single sand corn in a sandbox.

First things first: don't panic.

Shawn took a deep breath before squinting up at the sun bearing down at him. From what he had gathered from camping with his dad, the position of the sun told him it had to be around eleven in the morning.

Repeat: don't panic.

He looked down at himself and noted the jacket he had had on that morning – at least he hoped it was that morning – was no longer with him. Not that he thought he needed it in this heat. He was temporarily grateful for the jeans and t-shirt he was still wearing, though, he realised, that would hardly help against the heat.

His head still felt a little weird and he carefully raised his right hand to prod gently around his skull, looking to see if there were any lumps. He wasn't sure if he should be grateful when he found none. He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes in an effort to still his slightly wavering sight. He sniffed loudly as he brought his hands away again.

The sand beneath the bare skin of his hands was burning hot and it would have been fine had he been on the beach with the knowledge of the ocean and shade nearby, but this was more than a little disconcerting.

It was with a great deal of effort that he forced his body to co-operate long enough for him to try and get his feet beneath himself. His feet were bare, but he was not quite sure why his sneakers were gone. Those had been good sneakers too. They hadn't even been that old. He had bought them – well, Gus had bought them – about two months ago. Why was he even having an internal rambling about his shoes?

Standing proved a bad idea and he soon found himself sitting back down as the world tried to right itself again. Okay, maybe slowly was the key to getting up. Shawn _very carefully_ pushed himself first to his knees and waited for the latest bout of vertigo to settle before standing the rest of the way up. He pressed his hand hard against his forehead as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the world to please stop spinning.

He breathed out a shaky sigh of relief when he was still standing the next time he opened his eyes. So far so good. The next question was a little more troubling.

Where the heck was he?

He had no doubt that his latest trip in the desert had to do with the current case he was working on. This did not make him feel any better as, the last time he checked, the cops had no idea of the who, where, why or even what, though they were fairly certain that the Sandman was not behind the murders. He could only hope he was still in the Santa Barbara area, but that did not help him much as he had no idea of whether the city was north, south, east or west. In the end he decided on walking south in the hope that maybe if he just kept walking down on the map he would hit a place that was at least somewhat familiar.

Another little maybe important factor that he had just noticed was that his captor had neglected to give him a bottle of water. Shawn huffed. That guy certainly wasn't about to go for a Michelin Star.

It was with a deep breath and great willpower that Shawn took a step forward and started heading towards what he hoped was the south, though he wasn't sure if he actually had any idea.

The sand burned with a tingly sensation against the soles of his feet as he shuffled forward, wiping off a few beads of sweat from his forehead. It hurt to keep his eyes open all the way, so he kept them half-lidded, having them open just enough to watch his own feet as he put one in front of the other at a slow and agonizing pace. Shawn wondered briefly what he was actually doing but he supposed it was better to do something than nothing.

It wasn't long before beads of sweat were an understatement to describe how it felt as sweat ran down his back and chest. It was more of a cascading waterfall, and not the good kind like the Chief's chair. No, this felt absolutely terrible. He coughed dryly as he pushed matted hair away from his forehead, feeling his hand coated with sweat as he brought it back down. This officially sucked.

He could hear a strange humming in his ear which seemed to be the only sound occupying the vacuum he was currently wading through. He shook his head in an attempt to get rid of the sound but instead nearly toppled down onto the sand again.

Okay, bad idea to shake head. Duly noted.

Shawn raised his head to peer off into the distance and stopped dead in his tracks.

Why was there a pineapple with a giant bow attached to it sitting roughly thirty metres in front of him in the sand?

Tilting his head to the side in curiosity, Shawn shuffled towards the fruit a little quicker than before.

He blinked.

Where did the pineapple go?

Shawn stopped with a whimper and looked around as if hoping to see the pineapple again. He wasn't an idiot but he seriously hoped that the fruit had not merely been a fragment of his imagination. It just wasn't anywhere in sight. He decided to walk a little further and maybe be on the lookout for it.

He had no idea how much time had passed but it was getting even harder to keep his eyes open as he trudged through the sand. A few minutes earlier when he had made a move to run a hand across his forehead again he had been rather alarmed to find that he was sweating a lot less now than before. Wasn't the body supposed to sweat when you got this hot? He had put the thought aside though and kept walking, annoyed at the shaky feeling in his legs.

"Hello?" Shawn whispered hoarsely and tentatively as he looked to the side and down to the ground. "Who're you?"

His shadow did not answer which Shawn found rather rude but when he made a move towards it, it in return moved away from him.

Hmm, maybe a different tactic was in need.

"We're in a desert," okay maybe he shouldn't have sounded quite so high if he was trying to console his companion into the belief and understanding that he was not threatening.

_So I've noticed_.

Wow, he totally had not expected a response, much less a response with a voice that sounded so much like is own.

"Do you come here often?" Shawn asked, currently forgetting completely about his previous plan to walk.

_No._

Shouldn't his shadow be slightly more talkative than that? Shawn sighed, finding even the air stiflingly hot as it ran past his dry lips.

He started walking again, though he tried to keep an eye on his shadow at the same time as being on the lookout for the runaway pineapple.

It was some time later that he finally collapsed. He was unsure of how long he lay there but when he was slightly more coherent again he promptly rolled to his side just in time to expel whatever may have been left in stomach from his breakfast that morning. He felt as if he had just run a marathon when he rolled back onto his back, closing his eyes against the blazing sun.

He groaned as he tried to push himself back on his feet. He was stubborn and unwilling to simply lay there to roast in the sun. He could just as well walk and get roasted at the same time. That would actually be multitasking.

He legs gave way under him twice before he was finally able to steady them underneath him. His heart was beating harshly in his chest and the warm air made it torture to try and draw the deep breaths that he so desperately needed. He wavered slightly as he forced himself to keep walking, the dizziness that had returned full force was definitely not helping his efforts.

He tried to cough in an effort to rid his lungs of the hot air and sand that felt as if it had sneaked into his mouth, but it was to no avail. His shadow had been suspiciously quiet after his collapse, but one slightly more coherent thought told him that was probably a good thing.

His tongue slipped out between his lips as he attempted to rid them of their dried out feeling, but even his tongue felt dry, giving his lips no relief. He had no idea where he was even walking anymore only that was what he'd decided to do meaning that was what he was going to do. He looked hazily to the side. Hey, was that the pine–?

The sun was still glaring down at him when he opened his eyes again. That was so not cool. Later he would probably deny the term 'fainting', but he found that he didn't care what it would or should be called only that he did not care much for it. Before his heart had been racing like a colt at the Kentucky Speed Stakes, but now it seemed to had slowed considerably, no longer hammering against his chest. It was still relatively hard to draw a breath in the hot air, but what bothered him the most was the way his head was swimming to the degree that he wasn't sure he even wanted to get up.

That though was enough to send him rolling to his side and start crawling his way into a standing position. He got to his hands and knees before he collapsed again, face first straight back into the sand. Ugh…sand really did not taste very nice and certainly did not mix well with an already way too dry mouth. He coughed dryly again as pushed himself up again, keeping his eyes closed in order to conserve the energy to actually get up. He had lost the meaning behind getting up and walking but something inside of him told him that if he wanted to survive he _had_ to get up. At the moment that seemed like a really cruel idea.

He decided that crawling ahead on his hands and knees would justify as walking for a while as it simply took too much energy to get to his feet. The sand ran over his fingers in rivulets as his hands dug deep and pushed him forwards. His clothes clung to him uncomfortably with a mixture of dried sweat and sand. His mouth was permanently open in an attempt to catch any cool air that might come his way. So far he had found none.

He could feel his arms getting tired before he collapsed again, so he avoided a face-plant in the sand this time as he allowed his body to fall to the side just in time. He felt sick again, but would really prefer not to throw up again. It had done nothing for his wellbeing so he was pretty sure a repeat would not offer any different results. He breathed in the warm air deeply, feeling his lungs burning along with the rest of him in response.

He felt so tired, lying in the burning sand underneath the merciless sun. He would allow his body to rest, if only for a few minutes.

Backtrack, hang on a second. He opened his eyes again, unaware that he had actually allowed them to close. Was that a person over there in the distance? He looked to have a slightly hazy outline but that was probably not his fault, so Shawn wouldn't judge him for it.

He forced his legs under him again and toppled towards where he had seen the figure.

"Hey," it was meant to be a shout but it came out as nothing more than a strained whisper.

He swore he could still see someone standing there, and though he was unsure why, he felt it was more important than anything to get to that other person.

He lost him. Just as with the pineapple he had lost track of where the person had gone. This was so unfair that had he had the energy he would have actually been angry, and maybe a little bit upset. Scratch that, he was already upset, but he had told himself earlier not to panic, but quite frankly as he did not have the energy to be angry, he most certainly did not have the energy to panic.

OW!

He fell hard that time. His feet tangling in each other as he had tried to move faster than his body was capable at the given time. He was lying on his back again, trying hard to breathe deeply, but finding his lungs incapable of keeping up.

Why was he here again?

Shawn Spencer was able to remember anything, but right now he had no idea what he was doing here. He couldn't for the life of him puzzle together how he had come here. The sand was still burning and the sun was still blazing when he finally gave up his fight against his body's plea for rest.

* * *

He could feel hands on his body.

He could ear muffled voices but he had no idea what they were saying.

He tried to push the hands away from him and to tell the voices to leave him alone, but he must have been unsuccessful because the hands were still on him and he was still vaguely aware of people talking.

"…_be okay…fine…Shawn…_" the words drifted through his muddled brain as he again tried to push the hands off him but in the end he gave up, instead trying to formulate in words that he wanted them to leave him alone.

"…get…off…" he murmured, rather proud of himself for being able to say that much that actually sounded coherent. Well, it probably sounded a lot more coherent to him than it did to anyone else.

"You're going to be fine, Spencer, the ambulance is here."

Hang on. That was a lot clearer than anything he had heard before and he knew that voice…from somewhere.

He tried to open his eyes again, but gave up after a few attempts, instead grabbing slightly with his hands, desperate to feel something other than sand. His fingers found something that his brain registered as feeling slightly like cotton, but he couldn't be sure and he didn't care. He wrapped his hand as tightly around the material as he was able, which was not very tight at all, but at least there was a different sensation than sand against his fingers and hand.

"Spencer, you'll be…" the voice died off, but Shawn didn't care, not until the voice continued sounding slightly less sympathetic than before, "Spencer, let go off my jacket."

Over his dead body.

* * *

There you have it! As always feedback is greatly appreciated!

I was wondering whether or not to end it there, so let me know if you want this to be a two-shot rather than a one-shot.

Another thing; I know absolutely nothing about the deserts that I read was close to Santa Barbara, so just go with it. ;-)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I'm so sorry it took so long to get the second part up, but here it finally is! It's very long...

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

Shawn Spencer had suggested that the Sandman was behind these murders. Carlton Lassiter, on the other hand, would not make up ridiculous things to simply have something to say. He had been going over the file for the murders for the majority of the night and it was now nearing morning.

He rubbed a tired hand over his face allowing himself to look away from the crime photos for just a little while. He knew, just_ knew_ that there was something just outside of his grasp that he was not seeing that would almost definitely solve this case, he just had to see it. So far this guy had brutally murdered three victims leaving them to be found by just about anyone who liked to take a walk through the park. Spencer had jokingly – or at least he sincerely hoped so – suggested the Sandman as the perpetrator because the victims' mouths had been filled with sand. It seemed to be their killer's version of a calling card.

They had not been lucky enough to get fingerprints, though honestly he had not expected it from this guy. He was smart, but Lassiter had the vague feeling, _annoying_ feeling, that Spencer had been onto something when he had mentioned that this guy was angry about something, though he was certain that it was not that he had not been allowed to play in the sandbox when he was younger.

With a sigh he pushed himself up from behind his desk and walked over to the coffee machine. He might as well start with the coffee now instead of thinking about sleep because he was quite certain that sleep would elude him even if he tried to close his eyes for a while. Now with a fresh cup of coffee he made his way to his desk though he refrained from sitting back down, instead choosing to hover above it, looking down at the files from a standing position.

This was getting really ridiculous.

He was the Head Detective and he was unable to find their murderer after three deaths. It was simply unacceptable. Mentally berating himself, Lassiter sank back down in his chair and started perusing the files again with renewed interest, or rather, determination.

The day before they had found a connection between the victims with the help of Spencer, Lassiter reluctantly admitted. Spencer claimed that he had psychically been told that all of the victims had been unfaithful. Though Lassiter had been certain that Spencer had not achieved this information psychically, he had doubled checked with the victims' relatives and had grudgingly had to report back that, yes, they had all suspected it. That didn't bring them any closer to finding their killer, however, as it was a little difficult to find all the unfaithful couples in Santa Barbara and warn them that one of them may just be next on the list of a serial killer. Carlton did not even want to imagine how that conversation would go down.

He _very_ briefly considered calling Spencer to hear if he had found anything new, but considering how much the so-called psychic loved to draw attention to his findings – and thereby himself, Lassiter mused – he had no doubt that if Spencer knew anything they would _all_ hear about.

Hang on.

Sand.

Unfaithful couples.

Why was this ringing a bell? Lassiter's fingers hovered over the keyboard waiting for the epiphany to come to him. He could feel it sitting there, on the corner of his consciousness, just waiting to be acknowledged.

He was certain that he had heard stories about a case just when he had started as a rookie in the SBPD that somehow made him think these two were related. However, he couldn't mighty well write 'sand' and search for it in the database. That wouldn't make any sense and the poor database would most likely be pretty confused, considering his confusion.

Carlton took a big gulp of his coffee, wincing as it scolded his tongue lightly, though hoping that it would give his brain a boost to piece together the jigsaw. The station was eerily quiet this early in the morning, but he appreciated it as it gave his mind the peace it needed in order to think. He supposed it would be better to try and find more information instead of just sitting quietly and wait for it to come to him.

Damn Spencer for always having to be right.

Lassiter came to this conclusion around half an hour later when he had found what he hoped he was looking for. He wasted no time on dialling the Chief's number.

"Chief? I think you better come and have a look at this."

This was way too much to explain over the phone, though he had no doubt in his mind that he would not be particular popular if this turned out to be a dead end. Well, at least he was doing _something_. He called O'Hara as well and told her the same thing. There was no need to repeat himself, they could just as well be informed of what he had found at he same time.

As it turned out they arrived at roughly the same time at around quarter to seven in the morning. Thoughts of sleep were long forgotten from all parties as they listened intently as Carlton relayed what he had found.

"Fifteen years ago Donald Morgan beat his wife to death and dumped her body in the desert. Turns out he tried to do the same with his nineteen year old son, but he was found and survived the ordeal."

"You think there's a connection?" Chief Vick asked with interest, probably eager to make some kind of progress in the case.

"It does make sense…in a way," O'Hara mused, clearly lost in thought.

"Do you think that the son is involved?" Vick questioned looking between her two detectives.

"The name of the son is Steven Morgan. He simply dropped off the radar after the incident," Lassiter relayed the information he had read earlier. "Isn't he at least worth looking into?"

Vick eyed him for a second, weighing her options. On one hand this felt like grasping at loose end, but on the other, they had no other leads. She gave an affirmative nod and let them know to alert her if they found _anything_. She retreated to her office, hoping that they would find something.

It had been another hour in which Lassiter had found that Steven Morgan actually had a small criminal record from when he was twenty-two and had attempted a burglary, though had failed miserably, when Lassiter heard O'Hara's phone ring.

"Hello," he heard her answer, her tone betraying her stress, "Gus," _oh no_, "oh my God…we'll be right there."

She snapped her phone shut with more force than necessary causing Lassiter to look up at his partner as she quickly scrambled away from her seat and practically ran to his desk.

"We've got to go," she snapped quickly, clearly thinking that was enough information. Lassiter thought otherwise.

"Why?"

Her expression was a clear indicator that maybe he should have phrased his question differently or at least had made a move to follow her when he spoke. He quickly pushed himself out of his chair to at least look like he had paid attention to her.

"Shawn's been kidnapped."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she had run to the Chief's office to relay the news.

If this was a prank Lassiter was going to flay Spencer alive.

* * *

It was not a prank. That much was at least obvious, not that it was any consolation. Lassiter now found himself wishing that Guster and Spencer had merely been playing a practical joke on them, because this seriously put a more urgent note on their case. There was no doubt that the case and Spencer's kidnapping were connected. It seemed that their killer and kidnapper had been a little too enthusiastic about them making a connection between Spencer's kidnapping and the case. Sand had been strewn over the Psych office floor to the depth that he could almost see footprints in it.

It didn't take long for the Head Detective to realise that their guy had finally messed up. A syringe had been dropped on the floor and it quickly became top priority at the crime lab. Carlton had given strict orders to be informed immediately as soon as they knew anything.

Guster was barely holding himself together but he was clearly trying, Lassiter had to give him that. No one had dared be the one to tell Henry Spencer that his son was missing, quite possibly taken by a gruesome serial killer, until Karen Vick called him herself. From the look on her face when she was done, Lassiter deducted that it had not been the most joyous conversation she'd ever had.

Leaving O'Hara to finish working the scene, Carlton headed back to the station to continue digging through Steven Morgan's file, grasping onto the hope that he was actually their guy. Spencer's kidnapping was very different from the other victims as nothing elaborate had been done at the scenes from where they were taken, only where they were found. Lassiter had the eerie feeling that Spencer had been too close and the killer simply wanted him out of the way before he continued on his murder spree. Lassiter seriously hoped that Henry Spencer would head to the Psych office before the station, knowing that once the man arrived here he would want answers, or at least something to show progress. To be quite honest, Lassiter wouldn't mind showing a bit of progress and he could only hope that Spencer's abduction – he snorted slightly at that as Spencer had the tendency to make the Head Detective question his belief that aliens did not exist – would provide them with a new lead.

It was now coming close to ten in the morning, but it seemed like a lot longer had passed since prior their knowledge of Spencer's disappearance. He had not made significant progress in anything yet, annoyingly finding it hard to concentrate. His lack of concentration may be understandable considering the all-nighter he had just pulled. Oh yes, and then Spencer had to go and get himself kidnapped.

Spencer's kidnapping turned out to be the best thing that had ever happened in the case. Carlton could hardly believe it, but their killer had screwed up, apparently forgetting to wear gloves or take the syringe with him. The fingerprints matched Steven Morgan's. It was at times like these that Carlton Lassiter had no doubt in his mind why he was Head Detective. True, they still had to track Morgan down, but at least they _knew_ who they were looking for with absolute certainty. That didn't mean that they had found him, though.

Henry Spencer was not a force to be meddled with, so when he came to the station Carlton did his best to stay out of his way and let the Chief handle him. That was why she was the Chief, right?

The contents in the syringe had turned out to be a general anaesthetic, and Lassiter felt a small surge in his stomach that was most certainly not worry or concern, but something in the same family. How long had Spencer been missing now? He knew not to dwell on those thoughts and instead forced himself to continue searching for Steven Morgan. A guy simply did not disappear; you just had to know exactly where to look.

As it turned out Steven Morgan had disappeared – completely. On the bright side, Lassiter had just – rather proudly – announced that he had a lead. It seemed that though Steven Morgan was no longer their person of interest, Steven Legg certainly was. It seemed too easy somehow that their serial killer had done nothing more than change his surname, but a quick glance at the clock told Carlton that it had been far from easy.

This was taking too long.

"Alright!" Carlton shouted over the noise and activity in the bullpen, "Let's move it!"

They'd found the vehicle registered to Steven Legg to be a metallic grey Range Rover, as well as finding an address. They had no time to waste. O'Hara was by his side instantly, knowing the drill.

"How long has Shawn been missing?" O'Hara asked the question quietly when they were driving, clearly aware that her tone was unprofessional, though she tried not to let any emotions show.

"At least four hours," he answered without even glancing at his watch, his internal clock ticking away mockingly as each second past.

"There's the car," O'Hara said unnecessarily as they reached Steven Legg's address, which turned out to be a surprisingly normal, picket-white-fenced property.

Carlton's fingers brushed against his gun as he got out of the car, waiting inconspicuously for O'Hara before they both made their way towards the house, ready to draw their guns if necessary.

They shared a brief look before his partner rang the doorbell and Carlton knocked about a millisecond after.

"I already rang the bell," Juliet said vacantly without looking at him, her eyes fixed on the door.

"I know, but he didn't answer," Carlton argued half-heartedly.

"How was he supposed to get to the door after one second?" O'Hara questioned, wrinkling her nose slightly as she glanced at him briefly.

"Would you just ring the doorbell again?" Lassiter retaliated and watched as his partner obliged though she kept her eyes trained on him.

They heard footsteps and readied themselves, unsure what they would find when the door opened.

A nicely dressed man in his mid-thirties was not what they were expecting. Well, they knew the age, but he looked nothing like a serial killer.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

He even spoke politely with a nice smile to match.

"Steven Legg?" Carlton questioned and when he was answered with a brief, tentative nod, he continued, "You are under arrest."

Carlton never got tired of saying those words.

Another surprising factor was how compliant Steven Legg was, even asking if one of them wouldn't mind turning off the stove before they left. This was not what they had been expecting at all.

Lassiter was not pleased, though, that their perpetrator chose to act completely as expected as soon as any questioning started. He didn't want a lawyer and would happily talk about anything, as long as it didn't touch on the murders or Spencer. Detective Carlton Lassiter was not a naturally patient man, and what little patience he had managed to build over the years was chipping away rather rapidly as Legg gave them nothing of use.

"Just give it up, Morgan," Carlton growled, tired of playing games, instead wanting answers, hoping that calling the guy by his birth name would trigger something, "where is Spencer?"

Legg glared at him. He had done so since Carlton had said "Morgan". It was at times like these that he seriously wished that he could allow his frustration to take hold, but he forced it back, knowing it would do nothing good for the investigation.

"Is this the point where I'm supposed to say, 'you'll never find him'?" Legg sneered, the politely and smiling man from earlier gone for good. "Because that's not how I do things. It's too clichéd."

"You're nothing but a cliché, having sand as your calling card," Lassiter countered, a slim not of malice seeping into his voice before he reined it back in. "Now, I will ask you again, _where is Spencer_?"

Legg sighed and rolled his eyes. _Oh no he did not just_…Carlton forced in a deep breath, reminding himself that he did not become Head Detective simply to have the tightly taken away by decking some idiot, kidnapping, serial killer.

"Would you _relax_?" Legg said, sounding mostly like an insolent teenager. "He's probably dead already anyway."

"What did you do?" Carlton asked slowly and carefully.

"He was getting annoyingly close, so I took him out of the picture. The answer is no, before you ask. I did not kill him like the others. In that way he would still be part of the picture, wouldn't he?"

"What in the name of sweet justice are you talking about?" Carlton asked with a frown as he tried to figure out just how messed up this guy was. After two hours – scratch that – _two and half_ hours of interrogating, Lassiter was starting to get the impression that he probably should walk into a mental health clinic and never walk out again.

"He will be where I was," Legg said slowly, a smug smile appearing on his face as he leaned back in his chair and looked at the Head Detective.

"_He will be where I was."_ Lassiter looked at Legg, realising that he would not get another word out of the man unless he asked about gardening or probably fishing. He pushed himself to his feet briefly looking down in the process.

Sand.

He was sure that was sand on the other man's shoe. He raced out of the door.

"McNabb!"

The Canadians probably heard that yell, so it was no wonder that the rookie promptly dropped everything he had been holding before sprinting across the bullpen to stop before Lassiter.

"Yes, sir?" He said questionably, looking mostly like he was worried the Head Detective was going to shoot him.

"Was there any sand residue on the tires of his car?" Carlton inquired as he stared at the rookie.

"Sand?"

"Yes, you idiot, sand!" Carlton yelled, before pinching the bridge of his nose, allowing the rookie to escape long enough to grab a file.

"Yes, there was," McNabb answered quickly as if he was afraid that any delay actually _would_ get him shot.

"I know where Spencer is."

* * *

That statement may have been a bit optimistic as the SBPD team along with Guster and Mr Spencer found forty-five minutes later, as they stared across the miles of sand.

"How did he even get Shawn out here?" Guster asked with a forlorn look on his face as he stared at the sand.

"He had a car, Guster," Lassiter snapped as he searched the landscape for any clues.

"I know that, that's not what I mean," Guster snapped back irritably, his irritation probably masking his worry over the situation, "what I mean is, why aren't there any tire tracks in the sand or anything."

"There's no saying exactly where he…er…" Lassiter was not sure that 'dumped the body' would be a clever phrase to use at that moment, not if he cared at all for his life.

"What Lassiter is trying to say," Carlton reminded himself that he owed O'Hara for coming to his rescue, "is that this desert is huge. We don't know for sure where Shawn is."

"Mr Spencer, where are you going?" Guster called out, bringing the other's attention to the fact that Henry had started walking across the sand, looking very determined, a water bottle clutched tightly in his hand.

"To find my son."

That spurred everybody into action. They reeled Henry back in with some difficulty, assuring him that going wandering in the desert was not the best way to find someone.

Another thing that worried Lassiter tremendously was the fact that it was incredibly hot. Was it not for his damn pride he would have shed his jacket half an hour ago.

Carlton arranged search vehicles to go out across the desert, one of which held both O'Hara and himself. He had successfully managed to get Henry and Guster in a different vehicle. He did not need either of them breathing down his neck. The Chief was in the process of getting a chopper, and Lassiter quickly warned to be careful about that with the sand, as the last thing they needed now was anything resembling a sand storm.

"Carlton?"

They'd been driving for about half an hour before his partner spoke up and the hesitancy in her voice told him he was not going to like what she was going to say.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think he'll even be alive?"

Carlton ground his teeth together and doubled his efforts at looking out into the distance, trying to spy anything useful. Preferably something closely resembling Spencer. He was never one to give too much false hope, or hope of any kind actually, so he thought it better not to answer O'Hara's question.

The car bounced slightly as they drew across the sand, just slow enough to not miss anything. They had been keeping contact with the other teams as they drove; thereby knowing that no one had seen any sign of Spencer.

"Carlton, what's that?" O'Hara's voice drew his attention immediately as he tried to see what she had seen.

Sand flew around the tires as he braked the car hard, both of them thrusting open the doors and racing across the sand towards the figure they had seen. Carlton's knees hit the sand hard as he dropped down on the ground, immediately feeling for a pulse.

"We have a pulse," he informed Juliet who had just dropped down on Spencer's other side, "it's weak, but it's there."

"Oh my God…" Juliet breathed out as her hands hovered over Spencer, as though afraid where to touch.

Carlton too a closer look at the younger man, seeing now what had caused his partners reaction. He had expected the skin to look red from being exposed to the sun for so long, but apparently he had been wrong. Spencer was far too pale, especially for someone who was supposed to have been walking in the sun. He was breathing, but that was about the only positive thing, Carlton noted as he took in the cracked, dry lips as well as the sand speckled eyelashes and hair, which had definitely seen better days.

"O'Hara!" Lassiter barked, hoping to get his partners attention. "Go and radio this in. He needs an ambulance _now_."

O'Hara nodded tightly once before jumping to her feet and sprinting the twenty metres back to the car. Carlton heard her voice behind him as she radioed for the ambulance they had on hold, as well as to the other teams out searching for Spencer.

Carlton placed a hand on the younger man's forehead, alarmed that the skin was hot and dry to the touch. Not a good sign. He lifted Spencer's eyelids, not at all surprised at how slow the pupils were to respond. Lassiter was glad to note though that there didn't seem to be any further injuries, but at the moment that was not much of a consolation.

Spencer's hand twitched, the first response Carlton had seen from the man so far.

"They're on their way," Juliet said as she came jogging back, "how is he?"

Carlton thought he had covered that with his note of urgency to get the ambulance here, but he decided to play fair.

"Not good, I think he's in a pretty severe case of hyperthermia."

"I hardly think he's too cold."

"_Hyper_thermia, O'Hara," Carlton answered in a carefully controlled voice, "not _hypo_thermia."

"Oh," Juliet breathed, sending him an apologetic look, before her eyes came to rest at Shawn's feet. "Why did Legg or Morgan, whatever his name is, take Shawn's shoes?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Lassiter answered honestly as he too eyes the feet.

"Should I get some water bottles from the car? I forgot when I was radioing the ambulance," O'Hara asked, a blush of embarrassment and probably guilt coloured her cheeks.

"Sure," Carlton said and watched her as she ran back to the car. Truthfully, the water bottles would not do a whole lot of good right now. Spencer was in need of medical care. Urgently. On the other hand, it gave his partner something to do other than worry.

Juliet ran back with a bottle in each hand, sitting back down in the sand eyeing Spencer, clearly unsure exactly what she wanted to do with said water bottles.

Carlton couldn't help but take pity on her.

"Give me one," he requested, holding his hand out and waited for her to screw the cap off one of the bottles and give it to him, before sliding one hand into the sand behind Spencer's head, raising it slightly off the ground. Carlton put the bottle against Spencer's cracked lips and poured, watching as the water merely ran down the man's cheeks, leaving streaks behind in its wake as it washed away the dirt that had settled on the man's skin.

Spencer moaned weakly, his hands twitching slightly. Carlton laid him back, setting the bottle aside for later use. He quickly checked Spencer's pulse again, glad to find that it had not got worse since the last time he checked. At the same time O'Hara was placing a hand on Spencer's chest, for what reason Carlton wasn't sure.

"Shawn, you're okay," Juliet said reassuringly though slightly desperately as Spencer moaned, or whimpered again. Lassiter wasn't quite sure which. "You're going to be fine, okay, Shawn? You're okay."

Spencer raised his hands slightly off the ground and groaned loudly and Lassiter briefly wondered if he was trying to speak as his abused lips moved slightly in the formation of words. He looked back towards the car as he heard the sounds of approaching vehicles. O'Hara reluctantly left them to go and get the medics as fast as humanely possible just as Spencer tried to move his hands again.

"You're going to be fine, Spencer," he said, trying to offer some comfort, though he felt rather uncomfortable doing so, "the ambulance is here."

He looked back to see his partner waiting impatiently for the vehicles to come all the way to them, the sun reflecting of the windshields and making the sand sparkle like gold. He felt a slight tuck at his jacket and started to turn back to Spencer.

"Spencer, you'll be…" Carlton started to say but his voice drifted off as he realised what had caused that small tuck on his jacket. _Oh hell no!_ Spencer's hand was curled loosely around the black material of his suit jacket, clasping onto it as though it were a lifeline. "Spencer, let go of my jacket."

He said is as calmly as could when dealing with Spencer. Yes, these were extenuating circumstances, but that didn't change the fact that _Spencer's_ hand was touching _his_ jacket. At his words it seemed that Spencer actually managed to tighten his hold on the jacket, drawing it slightly towards him.

With both hands, Carlton attempted to pry Spencer's fingers off his jacket, finding the younger man's grip surprisingly firm and unrelenting.

"Spencer, let _go_ of my jacket," he repeated a little less calmly this time.

"For goodness sake, Carlton, let him hold your jacket if he wants to," Juliet said with an exasperated sigh as she came running back. Carlton had been so busy in his quest to get Shawn off his jacket he had not even heard her come back. He knew that tone though, and knew not to mess with _any_ woman who sounded like that.

"Fine," he said as he reluctantly gave up on his attempt to loosen Spencer's hold. "He's pathetic."

"You try walking around in the desert and see how you feel," Juliet snapped as she stepped back to give the EMTs some room.

Carlton knew she was right and he couldn't really blame the man for trying to anchor himself. He just wished it wasn't his jacket that served that purpose.

It wasn't long before Spencer was loaded into the back of the ambulance, his dad arriving just in time to get in the back with him, Guster promising to get to the hospital as soon as he was able. Carlton didn't particularly mind that he'd have to let Spencer have the jacket as it _was_ too hot for it anyway. It was his jacket, but he would get it back. On second thought, he wasn't really sure he wanted it back now at all. Spencer could keep it.

* * *

Carlton didn't know why he was standing outside Spencer's hospital room, glaring at door. His cover story had been that he had to get Shawn's statement, but that wasn't all of it. Of course he wasn't here on a friendly visit. That would just be surreal. With a sigh of defeat he pushed open the door.

Spencer still looked horrible, but at least a lot better than he had when he had last seen him. Not that that was much of a compliment considering he had seen corpses look better than Spencer had the day before.

Shawn had been staring at the ceiling, his fingers slowly curling and uncurling against the covers, but looked over as Lassiter entered. There was a dull look in his eyes that the detective was not used to seeing, but taking the previous day's events into account that wasn't too surprising.

"Lassie!"

Why did the man have to try and sound so cheerful when his voice still sounded like sandpaper?

"Spencer," Lassiter greeted guardedly. He cleared his throat, shuffling from foot to foot near the doorway before he manned up and spoke, "How're you feeling?"

"I'm great," Spencer rasped, looking and sounding anything but 'great'. "I might cancel any future sauna visits, but apart from that, I'm good."

Lassiter nodded slowly, knowing he was stalling. With a frustrated huff he strode forward and fell into the chair next to Shawn's bed, earning a very confused stare from the younger man.

"You were getting too close," Lassiter said, feeling he at least owed it to the younger man to let him know the reason he had spent a day in hell, "that's why he took you. You weren't part of his plan so he didn't want to kill you liked he killed the others…"

"It would have been too quick a kill," Spencer said and Lassiter was surprised to him sound so devoid of any emotion. "He saw each of his killings as a masterwork and by killing me it would take some of that away. Dumping me in the desert was a pretty good plan actually. That way I was out of his way and I would most likely die," he glanced over at the detective, quickly forcing a grin on his face, "but he didn't count on the police force kicking butt!"

"No, no he didn't," Lassiter agreed solemnly. He sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where's you dad and Guster?"

"I sent them down to the cafeteria. They were hovering," Spencer explained, a more relaxed expression taking over his features.

Carlton nodded slowly.

"Well, I must be going," he said as he quickly stood up, "good to you're doing better."

"I will be back to bothering the feathers off you in no time," Spencer said with great sincerity.

"I will not be looking forward to it," Lassiter countered with equal sincerity and Spencer grinned, clearly finding that so much more amusing than he did.

Spencer waved as he headed back to the door, stopping briefly as he reached it. With his hand resting on the doorknob he turned slightly to look at Spencer again. There was one more thing he had to ask.

"Spencer, where did my jacket get to?"

* * *

Thanks so much for reading! It's now 01:29 in the morning, but this had to be finished. Demanding little thing. ;-)

I hope you liked it! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!


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